Ahhh…day 2 and other than that treacherous drive to work yesterday morning, the appearance of crazy psycho Clomid wife has been pretty much limited to only potentially lethal road rage with one case of narrowly avoided domestic abuse so I figure that’s probably a good thing.

The road rage was all brought on by idiots. I am, either, a magnet for bad drivers, or the really horrible to think about possibility that I am, in fact, a bad driver myself. Now I really don’t think this is the case. I think I’m a target. It’s either caused by the big-ass orange T (Go Vols) that I proudly sport on both the front and back of my car in Georgia where they think not to kindly upon the Big Orange or the fairly discreet anti-Bush sticker that I have on display in the middle of the land where they think the president is God. It’s a toss-up.

Now…the domestic abuse. Fortunately for Patrick, he was outside for this incident and by the time he came in, I was, for the most part, back to quasi-normal (or is that quasi-evil?). It was completely and 100% irrational. I was being a psychopath and I will freely admit this. (Unlike the whole Monday incident).

Good, sweet, kind, wonderful Patrick was working his adorable ass off in the back yard because on Saturday we are going to this fantastic nursery sale where we will load up on plants to make a fence like thing across our back yard. I mean, he was working HARD. And before he went outside, we had a discussion about when we were going to eat dinner. The actual discussion probably went something like this:

PC: (that’s me) “What time do you want to eat dinner?”
P: (Patrick, obviously) “I don’t know, I’m going to go out back work in the yard for a bit, maybe 7:30 or so?”
PC: “Sure, that’s good, I’ll probably start cooking about 7:00 or so.”
P: “Okay, I’ll try and stick my head inside around then and see how much time I have.”

Apparently, I heard something more like this:

PC: “What time do you want to eat dinner?”
P: “Well, I’m not really sure. I need to work on the yard for a while. 7:30 would probably be good.”
PC: “That’s fine, I need to slave over this loaf of bread from a can so you’ll need to come in here and appropriately fawn over me around 7.”
P: “Well of course I will. While dinner will not be ready at 7 and you will, in fact, probably be sitting your lazy ass on the couch and drooling over Tom Cruise in Risky Business at 7, I will gladly drop everything that I am doing at that precise time and come in here to make sure that opening the bread from a can will not be too much of a strenuous effort for your delicate fingers. If I am more than 30 seconds late, it obviously means that I no longer care about you or our marriage and that the backyard is more important to me than you.”
PC: “Thank you that would be excellent.”

Now I’m sure you can imagine what I was yelling off the back porch at 7:30.